I Can't Hug You On the Phone, So Hurry Home
by FiferRose
Summary: Sam temporarily leaves the family business. When he wants back in, Dean tells him no, and later regrets that decision.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

**It's only Wincest if you want it to be. I'm not writing it as Wincest, but if you squint hard enough at any Supernatural fic, you can find it, so read this one however you'd like.**

**(If you do crave some Sam/Dean, check out my other story 'Angels & Devils.')**

**I'll probably be continuing this story, but may not update it as often as other stories. **

**Title comes from Jason Michael Carroll song, "I Can't Hug You On the Phone, So Hurry Home."**

**Don't own, so don't sue.**

**ENJOY. :)**

_This is Dean. I either can't get to the phone right now, or I'm just avoiding your call. Either way, I'm not answering, so wait for the beep. You know what to do with it._

_ Beeeeep._

That was the usual greeting that awaited those who called Dean Winchester's cell phone and got no answer. Dean's philosophy regarding the message was this: Why bother being friendly when life was currently crap? Besides, all of the usual callers, besides Bobby and Cas, whose calls Dean almost always answered, were bearers of bad news. Any lucky bastard that happened to have good news had found that news far away from the Winchesters' path of apocalyptic warfare, Dean was willing to bet, and had no reason to call. Unless they wanted to rub it in Dean's face, in which case they deserved the greeting they got.

It was the fifth day of Dean's second week without Sam. Dean didn't know where Sam was, but he knew why he was there, wherever _there _happened to be, and that was why Dean didn't bother searching for his brother. Sam knew what Sam needed, or so Bobby kept telling Dean. Dean was beginning to think Bobby was full of crap; Sammy didn't know a damn thing about what Sammy needed. But, Dean was honestly beginning to think that he too was absolutely full of crap. After all, it was his fault that he was without Sam now.

Sam had decided to take a much needed break from Devil-hunting and angel-chasing and Dean agreed that it was probably for the best. So, in the spirit of absence making the heart grow fonder, or some emo crap like that, Sam took off for a while, and did whatever it is that he did best. Besides demon-hunting. The plan was for Sam to stay away until he was certain that he couldn't be enticed by a 'bitch-blood' cocktail, or the blood of any damned demon for that matter. The hiatus lasted a few weeks, until Sam realized that his destiny was going to find him, no matter how far or wide he ran. He would just have to endure the temptation as he did his job, because hunting was in his blood, and he never had had any choice in the matter. Realizing this, Sam asked Dean to let him back into the family business. Dean, as stubborn and hard-assed as his father John Winchester, said no, and still couldn't tell himself why. He just let Sam walk once more out of his life.

Dean was beginning to doubt his choice now. He would gladly have given anything to have Sam back. Dean said as much to Bobby, who stuck with his own theory that Sam should be left the hell alone. Dean heeded his advice, but reluctantly. It wasn't like Dean had a whole hell of a lot of free time to go searching for Sam, anyway, and Sam wasn't answering his phone. At first, Dean couldn't figure out why, besides the obvious: Sam was avoiding him. When Dean found Sam's phone charger in his baby's back floorboard days later, he felt a small surge of relief; there was a possibility Sam was not purposely ignoring him. At the same time, though, Dean feared that something bad would happen to Sam, who would be without a way to call for help. Sam would be without a way to call anyone, period, unless he found a payphone, but these days, payphones were few and far between. Dean sighed as he placed the cell charger into his duffel bag. He had no choice but to let Sam find his own way home and in his own time.

Dean had been a dick, though; Sam had every right to stay far away for a long time. Dean was actually worried that he might. It would be like the echo of an incident years old, which also involved Sam butting heads with an older Winchester that didn't know the meaning of the word 'compromise.' Dean did not want his story with Sam to end the same way John's had, tense until the bitter end. Dean hoped that he would get a second chance that, unlike their father, he would seize in a heartbeat.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**** Chapter 2! :D If you haven't heard the song of the same title as this fic, then please do give it a listen. Youtube links are in my profile.**

**Enjoy. :D**

Dean felt as though he'd been hit by a train. Twice, at least. However, he hadn't; instead, he'd been put through the wringer by a couple of vampires, _sonsabitches_ to face alone, but Dean had done it. He wasn't about to let innocent people be harmed or killed just because Dr. Phil had yet to solve the Winchester family crises. Besides, the hunt had taken his mind off Sam, at least for a little while. Every little bit helped, because the more Dean thought about Sam, the more he worried about him, and the more worrying Dean did, the more pissed it made him, and being pissed was only a distraction, one liable to get him killed. Obviously, that would solve nothing, though sometimes it seemed to be Dean's best option.

Dean stumbled into the motel room and crashed onto the bed. Later, he would get up, grab a beer, and hit the head. Then, he would take a long shower, using every drop of hot water to untangle the knots that had formed in his muscles. Later, he would do these things, but now, now he would sleep. And sleep he did, for the next three hours, as nightmares caused him to toss and turn. Dean was glad that he could not remember the nightmares upon waking. He only remembered the thrashing of the bedclothes, but he was used to this fitful form of rest that could barely be considered 'sleep'. In fact, Dean had not slept soundly since before Sam left. Since Sam's departure, Dean's mind would not let him rest, and his body suffered for it during difficult hunts. Dean needed rest for his body to recuperate, for the strains and cuts to heal, and for his energy to be restored. A few more weeks of barely getting by on gas station coffee and fast food just might do him in.

Dean rolled out of bed, still exhausted, as usual, and walked to the bathroom. He turned the water on in the shower and was disgusted by the rusty color the water first appeared to be. Dean let the water run for a while, waiting until it was clear to start the shower. Once the water warmed, Dean undressed and stepped beneath the rickety shower head. He flinched as the hot water initially hit him, but soon sighed as it began to ease the aching in his shoulders and back. Dean grabbed the cheap bar of motel soap and lathered up. He tried his best to actually get clean with the wafer-thin slice of soap, but he knew it was a long shot, especially since he'd been put through hell by those vampires while in their grimy nest. Dean shuddered to think what might possibly have taken up residence on his skin, besides dirt and dead man's blood. As if those two things were not bad enough in themselves, there could have been worse things crawling on him at that very moment. Dean shuddered. Vampires? Piece of cake. Ghouls? A walk in the park. Shapeshifters? Bring 'em on. But spiders? No way in hell, but thank you very fucking much. Dean had never really been a bug person.

Dean stepped out of the shower, satisfied that he'd done the best job of sanitizing himself that he possibly could have, and grabbed a ragged towel to wrap around his waist. He stole a quick glance at himself in the mirror as he wiped the steam from it. Even the smears on the mirror couldn't hide how torn and frayed he looked. That didn't have much of anything to do with the hunting, some part of Dean figured. He quickly shut that part up, the part responsible for his few chick flick moments, by telling himself that his weariness had everything to do with saving people and hunting things, the family business. Yeah, he missed Sam. He could admit that much to himself with every part of his being. It was Sam's effect that he couldn't admit. That would be the same as admitting to weakness, admitting to a dangerous dependency that threatened to rip Dean apart.

Quickly, before he could read too much into his haggard appearance, Dean shut off the bathroom light and moved swiftly to the bed. He collapsed there, _so tired_, and fell asleep. Dean woke this time to the sound of an apparent fight in the motel parking lot. He got up from the bed, dry now, at least, but still wrapped in a towel and nothing else, and took a peek from his window at the scene outside. Two drunks were swinging at one another, but neither had made the first bit of contact. It wasn't Dean's problem and it wouldn't be, unless they got anywhere near his car. Then, Dean would get involved, by which he meant he kick some drunkard ass and not feel the least bit of remorse. Hell, maybe it would make him feel better, Dean thought, before realizing that he was almost _wishing _for the drunks to get near his car so he would have an excuse to throw a few punches, let off some steam.

Dean shook his head, hoping to clear his mind. It didn't do any good. It worked on a damn Etch-A-Sketch, so why couldn't it work on him?

Dean slowly got dressed in a worn t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. He sat back down on the bed and ran a hand over his face, trying to wake himself up a bit. He reached for his phone on the night stand and dialed his voicemail. He heard the familiar message and then typed in his password on the keypad. He sighed when he heard the familiar recording that he was finally becoming immune to. Again, no new messages. Dean supposed he knew that there were no new messages before he even called. He kept silently hoping, though, that there would be a message that somehow he had missed. He wanted to hear Sam's voice to at least know he was okay, that he wasn't hurt, that he was happy. Was that really too much to ask?

Dean dialed his voicemail again, just for something to do. An idea struck him then. It was incredibly cheesy, straight out of a sappy chick-flick that Sam would absolutely adore. Dean followed the obnoxious menu until he pressed '7' for the option that would allow him to record a new greeting. While waiting for the beep, Dean organized the words in his head. Slowly and clearly he spoke into his phone,

"Sam, this is the closest to chick-flick I'm ever going to get, so listen up. I miss you. I don't care about what happened in the past, or what might happen in the future, because, no matter what, you're still my brother and I love you, Apocalypse be damned. Your place is here with me, kicking ass, taking names. If we don't do it, who's gonna? So, uh, just get your ass back here. Everybody else, here comes the-"

_Beeeeep_.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:**** It has been forever! Sorry, everybody, for reals. Please enjoy this chapter, and let it take your mind off the finale... :'(**

**Also, I didn't (intentionally) mean to make Sam seem like a pansy or anything; I thought this was a very realistic response. Think about it. :) Also also, sorry for the parentheses overload. Couldn't help it. Sammy's a very thoughtful person and I imagine that random things occur to him at random times. :D**

**Enjoy. :)**

_ "Sam, this is the closest to chick-flick I'm ever going to get, so listen up. I miss you. I don't care about what happened in the past or what might happen in the future, because, no matter what, you're still my brother and I love you, Apocalypse be damned. Your place is here with me, kicking ass, taking names. If we don't do it, who's gonna? So, uh, just get your ass back here. Everybody else, here comes the-"_

Before Dean's voicemail could record any of the background noise that enveloped him, Sam placed the public payphone back on the receiver with a gentle click (he'd left his damn cell phone charger in the Impala's floorboard and had been kicking himself for it). He shook his head in disbelief and had to laugh at Dean's message. Never in a million years would he have thought Dean capable of such a cheesy, sappy message. It was like something straight out of a chick flick, something that probably caused Dean physical pain to utter; Sam absolutely adored it. Along with the laughter, though, came tears that threatened to spill from Sam's eyes.

Cue his father's voice playing inside his mind: '_You're a tough boy, Sammy, and tough boys don't cry. Dry it up.'_

Unlike all the times Sam had heard that from John, though, the tears were tears of relief rather than fear, of comfort and familiarity rather than pain or sheer frustration.

Still, he pushed them back. Homesickness could wait. Besides, how desperate to see Dean could he really have been if he didn't even leave a message?

_ 'Extremely desperate_,' he thought. The only reason he hadn't left a message was that he wasn't sure Dean would even want to hear from him. In fact, he was so sure Dean would send him away again that he hadn't even bothered coming up with anything to say. It was for that same reason that, before tonight, Sam hadn't so much as dialed Dean's number in three weeks.

So, when he'd called on a whim and heard Dean's greeting, Dean's message to him, he'd frozen on the spot. Luckily, he had enough presence of mind to hang the phone up before Dean got a voicemail consisting of Sam breathing heavily for sixty-four seconds. Not only would that make Dean think he was hurt, but come on…. Creepy much?

Truth was, though, he really did miss his pain-in-the-ass big brother. Well, technically Dean was the little brother, and had been since Sam turned fifteen and blew the roof off the six-foot mark; puberty hit the youngest Winchester like a brick, and Dean's insults of 'midget-boy' and 'shorty' flew out the window quicker than the cigarette butt that John had _almost_ caught Dean smoking the summer before. Unfortunately for Sam, the insult-free period had lasted merely long enough for Dean's brain to work out some new nicknames. Thus, 'Gigantor' had been born, and Sam loathed it from the start.

Now, though, he rather missed it.

Sam stepped from the phone booth in the somewhat trashy convenience store (like there was such a thing as a convenience store that wasn't trashy), unsure of how exactly to feel about the events of the prior minutes. He was both disappointed and relieved that Dean hadn't answered (disappointed for obvious reasons, and then relieved because he would've been without a clue as to what he should say to Dean) and then he was thrilled with Dean's message to him. But, still. Would it really be as easy as Dean seemed to think? Could Sam just return to Dean's side, kicking ass and taking names once more?

Well, why the hell not?

Sam trudged back to the crappy little motel he'd been slumming it in since he'd left. He paid for the room with the job he had at a redneck bar across the street. Speaking of which, that's where he should be heading soon. He wasn't looking forward to it, exactly, but his day had been brightened by Dean's message; at the very least, the late shift would be bearable. Besides, some of the drunks were amusing. Well, they found themselves amusing, at least.

Still, it felt wrong to Sam to act like some regular Joe the Plumber/Schmuck when he knew what he should be doing. As he'd learned all too well, you can't fight fate, the evil bitch. She'll get you in the end, and that was what he supposed he'd been waiting on: his past and likely future to catch up with him. Winchesters were apparently cursed. It was foolish for Sam to have expected to ever get out of hunting alive (really, truly alive; not being employed as a meat puppet; or _worse_), or to stay that way for long if he somehow did get out.

Sam unlocked the door to his current 'home' (it actually was more complicated than a simple turn of the key, and usually involved lots of cussing and kicking, but Sam had the procedure down to a science by that time). Then, he shut it behind him and plopped down onto the lumpy mattress after replacing the line of salt that the door had swept away. Just because he wasn't actively hunting these days didn't mean that there wasn't a bounty on Sam's head; after all, he was still a Winchester, perpetually locked and loaded or otherwise. He didn't take chances, and if that meant that he spent more money on salt than he did on actual food, well, so be it.

The ragged mattress no longer bothered Sam, but it wasn't exactly comfortable, so a nap, as keyed up as he currently was, was completely out of the question. He couldn't just lay there doing nothing in the hour or so before his shift started, either, though. So, he walked over to the small TV and picked the remote up from atop it. He slid back onto the mattress and powered on the TV. The channel he first landed on was a viewing guide, but Sam didn't have the patience to sit there waiting for the list to scroll along as if it had all day. As if the end of the world wasn't actually looming just around the corner, waiting to strike. No, strike was too strong a word. The apocalypse didn't strike; it had been creeping slowly, stalking the world for months now. The signs were there, if you knew where to look. Before he could get caught up in that train of thought, Sam shook his head, trying to dislodge all thoughts connected to demons, ghosts, angels, and whatever else came in that deluxe goody-bag of all hell breaking loose.

Still lazily clicking the channel up button on the remote, Sam only vaguely noticed the programs flickering past. One caught his eye, though; no matter how much he wished it hadn't: a pay-per-view program common in sleazy motels, such as the one he was in now. The movie was Casa Erotica 29, or whatever number they were on by now, and it made Sam think of Dean. You knew it was bad when the first thoughts porn brought to mind were not of the females bouncing around; nope, they were of your own brother. Suppressing a shudder, Sam turned the TV off. He had to get out of here, before he went crazy.

_ Crazier._


End file.
